


With the Gold Dawn's Breaking

by DreamingPagan



Series: Journey's End [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Everybody Lives, Gen, In Which Hal Gates makes a bad decision that saves his life, M/M, One of these days I'm going to write prequel fic about Gates and Hennessey, in which James Flint McGraw needs a drink and several hugs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-06-05 13:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15172136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/pseuds/DreamingPagan
Summary: There is a quality, Hal Gates thinks in the back of his mind, to an abandoned stretch of coast. It’s meant, for one, to be abandoned - devoid of people. Home to birds and the like - and not, he thinks, kicking once again at the pieces of his wrecked boat, bloody fucking useless idiot pirates too stupid to not go out in a ship-killer in a launch out of some stupid desire to avoid having a drink with the man who may have killed his son.In which Gates lives, and the events of Season 1 and 2 play out very differently.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As usual with my fics - Admiral Hennessey is here interpreted as a man put in a very bad position by Alfred Hamilton who had no choice but to go along with his demands to save James' life and the lives of all the other men under his command. I've made a tumblr post about it: http://flintsredhair.tumblr.com/post/151811259762/so-can-we-talk-about-admiral-hennessey-for-a. Please see the post for further explanation.
> 
> Thanks go as usual to my cheerleader, sounding board, and editor in chief, Sirenswhisper.

“Fuck. Bloody fucking _shitting_ hell -”

This stretch of coastline ought to be quiet.

There is a quality, Hal Gates thinks in the back of his mind, to an abandoned stretch of coast. It’s meant, for one, to be abandoned - devoid of people. Home to birds and the like - and not, he thinks, kicking once again at the pieces of his wrecked boat, bloody fucking useless idiot pirates too stupid to not go out in a ship-killer in a fucking launch out of some stupid desire to avoid having a drink with the man who may have killed his son.

“Let’s not tempt fate,” Flint had said. “Talbot Rhodes - private stock.” And for just a moment - just one, Gates had been tempted. One last drink - for old times’ sake, one last chance to air grievances, but -

It doesn’t matter now. He kicks at the washed up bits of his boat once again, and then sighs. He’s fucked - that much is obvious. He’s washed up on shore with nothing but the clothes on his back - and barely those, he thinks, fingering a ripped seam in his shirt. He has his boots, still - thank fuck for that, or the walk he’s about to start would be even more miserable than it’s going to be already. And once he arrives at his destination -

One thing at a time, he thinks grimly. He has to get to St. Augustine. He can burn the next bridge when he comes to it - for the moment his concern is his wet clothing, his squelching boots, and the way that the sun beats down on his bald head, unrelenting.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, and begins trudging, wishing he’d had that drink, and worn thicker socks - or better yet, stayed home thirty years ago with the stubborn bastard James has always put him in mind of.

He may as well sing, he decides - god knows he’s going to be his only company for a bit. He opens his mouth and -

_“A lusty young smith at his vice stood a-filing. His hammer laid by but his forge still aglow-_

_When to him a buxom young damsel came smiling, And asked if to work in her forge he would go, with a rub, rub, rub, rub, rub, rub. In and out. In and out. Ho!”_

His voice sounds a bit waterlogged still, but the tune is recognizable - damnably so. He curses once again.

“Damn it all, Eirnin, you had to teach me that bloody thing,” he mutters, and continues on to the next verse.

_“I will," said the smith, and away they went hither, Along to the young damsel's forge they did go-”_

************************************

_Division Bay:_

“As quartermaster, I hereby accuse you of tyrannical crimes against your crew.”

The words ring out and James Flint feels panic lance through his chest.

“All crews, fire!”

He gives the order, but he knows it will not be followed, before he ever turns around, before he hears Dufresne behind him.

“Belay that order!” the shorter man shouts, and James rounds on him.

“Beginning with the murders of Mr. Singleton, Billy Bones, and Mr. Gates -” Dufresne continues, and James curses.

“Mr. Gates was washed away by the storm, and Billy fell overboard. If you’d like to join them in dying for no good reason, I can arrange for it!” James can hear the rage in his own voice - can feel it building in his chest, and he is helpless to satisfy it - helpless to do anything as his chance slips through his hands. His fingers curl around the linstock - the guns are still at a forty-five degree angle -

“So you admit that Mr. Gates is dead!” Dufresne shouts. “You have it from his own mouth. Gates is dead, and Flint -”

“We don’t have time for this, we’re going to lose them. Fire!”

“I hold in my hand a letter written by Mr. Gates confessing his knowledge and complicity in the captain's myriad crimes. As well as his knowledge of the captain's continued treachery up to and including his plan to steal a portion of the treasure fleet proceeds for himself.”

One day, James thinks - one day, he is going to speak with Hal Gates again. On that day, he is going to wring his neck for his treachery, and his lack of vision.

“I gave you all an order,” he growls. He steps toward the nearest cannon - and the next moment there is agony - a ripping, tearing sensation in his shoulder, and he gasps - falls to the deck -

The guns go off a moment later, and James closes his eyes as he clutches at the shoulder.

“There’s no running now,” he rasps, and the world goes up in flames around him.

**************************************************************

_That same day:_

“Pardon me - sir?”

Well, Hal thinks, there’s an unexpected turn of events. He stands, looking at the horses and carts in the road, and the man driving them. Then he looks to the man leaning out of the carriage that’s traveling some distance behind, and the small contingent of what look to be the man's servants traveling still further behind. He snorts.

He’s not sure what a man who looks like the epitome of English wealth, power, and arrogance is doing out here, but he sure as fuck doesn’t belong there, any more than Gates himself.

“What exactly are you asking pardon for?” he asks, and the man in the carriage blinks.

“For interrupting your trudging,” he says. “Although by the look of you, I’d say that you might not mind awfully much. Where are you headed?”

Gates raises an eyebrow.

“South,” he answers. The man’s riding in a carriage - Gates has never met anyone travelling by carriage that was worth trusting as far as he could spit, and it’s true in a roundabout way without telling the man anything.

“You’re pointed north,” the man informs him, and Gates gives an exhausted sigh. It’s not even much of an act - his feet hurt like blazes.

“That makes the man I met on the road an hour ago a bloody liar,” he says, and the bewigged aristocrat in the carriage buys the lie hook, line, and sinker.

“If you wish,” he says, “you might travel with me. I am traveling to conduct business that will take me to the West Indies - I see no reason why you might not accompany me.”

“That depends on where South you’re headed,” Gates says. He keeps his tone light - a man making a joke. If this man is headed to the right place, though -

Well. St. Augustine is filled with Spaniards, and he’s never had much by way of business with the Spanish. And besides - he has business in Nassau that can’t wait.

“There is a ship awaiting myself and my goods. I hope to reach Jamaica by Monday next,” the planter says, gesturing, and Gates leans to one side to have a look. Sugar, he thinks with an inward grimace and an ironic huff of laughter. He’s spent most of his life chasing cargos of the New World’s white gold, and now he’ll be traveling on board a ship hauling the stuff, half hoping to be boarded by a ship that will take him back home.

“It just so happens I was hoping to be there soon myself,” Gates says, and the gentleman in the carriage smiles.

“Join me then, and you may entertain me with the tale of how you came to be stranded,” he says. Gates raises his eyebrows, but accepts, and with a groan of relief, he heaves himself into the carriage and onto the seat across from the planter.

“I don’t suppose I might ask the name of my benefactor?” he asks, and the wigged man smiles.

“James Oglethorpe,” he introduces himself, “Mister -?” Gates smiles.

“Gates,” he introduces himself. “Hal to my friends.”

******************************************************** _*********************************************_

_The Spanish Warship, Five Days Later:_

James’ shoulder aches and stings like a bastard and he has to swallow a wince and a curse as he puts the Spanish leather coat over his shoulders.

He should, he thinks, be a happy man. He sinks down to sit in the hammock that’s hanging in the corner of the room, and feels the cloth under him and the coat on his back, surrounding him like armor. It’s the first time in days he’s felt as if he might have a handle on the situation - the first time in days he hasn’t felt as though the world might be ending around him. He’s gained back his captaincy, and while this ship is not the Walrus, it will do - Christ, it should more than _do_ , and yet - and _yet_ -

He closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath.

He’s lost Hal. The fact keeps reverberating in his mind, tormenting him with its simple truth. He is down another friend, and he has no one to blame but himself - no one to rail at, or to have vengeance upon. He’s lost another member of his family, almost, and to say that it hurts is nigh dishonest. Closer to say that it’s slowly tearing a hole in his chest, and he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t even feel anything but the disbelief that after all this time, all this way, all the many fights that lie between here and where they started, that Hal Gates or Bridgeman or Avery or whatever the hell his true name is - was - has been swallowed up by the sea.

He’s gone, just like Thomas, and James’ grandfather, and Billy, and -

And another, whom he has not heard from in ten years or thought of if he can help it, but whom he now misses as fiercely as if the loss had occurred only days before.

Loss. He squeezes his eyes shut harder. It’s not accurate, he thinks suddenly with a sense of almost hysterical relief, to say that Hennessey is gone. The man is alive, somewhere, and maybe, just maybe -

_He had found the Admiral waiting for him in his rooms when he returned._

_His things, James thought almost hysterically, were already packed. It was the sort of small detail he had learned to focus upon during these times - times, that was, when he felt as though his heart and lungs might explode with the force of his feelings, times when he wanted nothing more than to rip and to tear - such as now, because there, between him and all his material possessions in the world, sat the man who had - who had -_

_“James,” the older man had said, in a pleading tone. “Please - I know you’ve no wish to see or speak to me at present but I am not here to further condemn you. I had no choice -”_

_“Thomas is gone,” James had choked out, and Hennessey closed his eyes._

_“I know,” he said, and it was too much - it was a bridge too far, and James had stepped backward, turned,_ _run_ _-_

His things had arrived in Nassau approximately three weeks after he himself had done and he has not been able to bring himself to look into the chest since, or open the letter that had come with his things, but he now regrets it, for who does he have left in all the world besides Miranda, if Hal is gone? It is not as though he has been blessed with many friends, and Christ, the ones he did have in London have probably long since disavowed all knowledge of him or his affairs - if they were sensible, that is, and he almost hopes they have been.

He is not doing himself any favors. He stands up from the hammock. There is no point in attempting to sleep when he is in this mood, and if he is to captain this ship, he must at least attempt to make some sense of the captain’s records regarding food stores, ammunition, and necessary repairs, and he must try to translate the maps, charts, and the log which will undoubtedly have been written in Spanish. He doubts somehow that Dufresne has made appreciable progress - not with the amount of trouble that James has given him, and the thought is a bright spot in an otherwise dark night.

He will be home before nightfall two days hence, and he is not certain if Miranda will let him in the door or not.

He puts down the pen in his hand, puts down the compass, and rubs his eyes. His mind, it seems, wants to play this particular game tonight. First his grief at losing Hal, and now the thought of Miranda, waiting for him, angry at him and for good reason, assaults him when it is least welcome, and will he ever again have a home to go back to?

It would be so easy. He could pick up the pen, write a letter, say the words “I’m sorry,” and if he knows the Admiral at all, he knows that he would find a way to welcome James back with open arms. It has been ten years. Alfred is dead. Thomas is dead, Miranda most likely hates him -

It would be easy, and cowardly, and wrong, and James throws the pen across the cabin in disgust and anger and despair. He shoves himself away from the desk again, and goes to pace the deck, to climb the rigging as he used to when he was a boy - to do something, anything. After all, as Hennessey used to tell him, a man who has exhausted his body may count on sleep, regardless of what travails his mind may be determined to endure.

Someday he will write to the old man, but not here, not now - not before his work is done and Thomas’ point made.

************************************************************************

_Carolina Colony, just North of Spanish Florida:_

It is raining again.

One day, he thinks, it is going to rain and he is going to simply stand out in it, allowing it to fall on his head without being curtailed by watching guards. One day soon, perhaps - if God or the Fates or whatever deities are in actuality in charge of this wretched earth on which he stands see fit to grant it. He has not given up hope - not entirely, although the steady drizzle that is soaking through his clothing now has nothing in common with the freeing, wind-blown beauty of this same storm at sea. He ought to know.

“Back to work!” one of the guards barks, and the man standing in the field next to him raises his head.

“We’re all going to be soaked to the skin and it will be the end of Fitzhenry. He’s coughing already,” the tall, blond former lord murmurs.

“It will be no such thing,” the other prisoner answers sharply. “The doctor has been by. He will live.”

“The doctor,” Thomas snorts. “If you can call him that, the man’s not even qualified by most standards - if this weren’t the colonies -”

“Quiet!”

The word comes with the sting of the lash - white hot pain across his back, and the prisoner bends under the blow, hating himself for it. There was a time - oh, there was a _time_ , and he misses it dearly, but at least they do not hit his compatriot -

The whip whistles through the air again. Thomas cries out next to him, and the prisoner does not think about it - he turns, and grabs for the implement of torture.

“No!” Thomas attempts to stop him but it is too late, it is a bridge too far - one cruelty too many -

A horse whinnies nearby, and then there are more blows, and shouts, and when it is over, both he and Thomas sit in their quarters, confined, and the younger man looks at him in frustrated concern.

“Why do you not allow them to simply hit me?” Thomas asks. He gestures to bruises that are beginning to make themselves known, cuts that dot the other man’s forearms and shoulders. “You cannot think James would want this.”

“I will heal in a matter of days. Can you say the same?”

Thomas scowls.

“I have been free of Bedlam for nearly ten years,” he answers, but the words lack conviction. “I was there for a month, I’m not so fragile as all that.”

The older man looks at Thomas - and watches him lower his chin, look at the floor.

“I never meant to become your burden,” Thomas murmurs. “Admiral -”

“You're no such thing. And I am not an admiral - haven’t been one in ten years.” Hennessey’s voice is quiet - less rebuke than gentle reminder. Nevertheless, Thomas stops and looks up again, his face gone red with embarrassment.

“Apologies,” he says, and Hennessey sighs.

“Apology accepted. And for the hundredth time,” he says, “my given name is Eirnin. Thomas - lad, look at me.”

It is Thomas’ turn to frown now.

“I am not a lad,” he points out grumpily, but looks Hennessey in the eye nonetheless.

It is a mark, Hennessey thinks, of how far they have both come that he can do so, and a mark of the one respect in which Hennessey has not failed. Thomas Hamilton may be imprisoned, but he is not broken - not yet, and Hennessey does not intend that he ever should be.

“Your letter will arrive,” he says quietly. “We must have faith in that. It will reach him. We are close - our patience has earned us that. Take heart - we will be free soon.”

Thomas takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes.

“For Fitzhenry’s sake, and all the rest,” he says, “I hope you are right.”

********************************************************

_Port Royal:_

“It’s marked for Captain Flint. It’s meant to be delivered directly to him -”

“D’you think I want anything to do with that particular madman if I don’t have to go near him? I’ve no business in Nassau and neither have you!”

“He might not even be the right Gates -”

The problem, Hal thinks, with the walls in most inns is that they’re bloody thin - and they’ve got ears, and the two whispering outside his door are lucky he’s the only one awake up here. It’s late - the two standing a few feet away are carrying a lantern that’s letting out entirely too much light, and there’s still a murmur from down below  but that will change soon enough. The tap room’s only just emptied out - they’ll be lucky if these men’s master, Mister Oglethorpe, doesn’t waken at this rate to the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs and catch them.

“Gentlemen,” he greets, “something I can help you with?”

The two whispering turn to him, suddenly terrified, and Hal rolls his eyes. They’re young - very young, and if he were a less suspicious man, maybe he’d think himself a bad man indeed for suspecting that Oglethorpe’s brought them to serve as pleasant decorations, but well - he’s not a better man, and he can guess only too well why these two look as if they’re preparing to leave.

“If you’re going to escape, you might try the back staircase instead,” he says, pointing toward the staircase in question. “There’s a guard below that window there, and another one at the corner of the yard, but if you time it right, the two’ll cross paths soon enough and leave a gap when they go their separate ways.”

They stare at him, and Hal sighs.

“You’ve a letter for me,” he says, and their eyes widen if possible.

“You’re really him?” one asks. “Flint’s quartermaster?”

The boy’s voice is hushed - tinged with awe, or fear, or both. His compatriot is scowling - frowning daggers at him, and Christ, Hal thinks - he hopes this young buck will listen to his friend. Or brother? Difficult to tell in this light - he dismisses the thought. None of his business or concern.

“Give it to me, and then it’s out the back,” he says gruffly. “Go on -”

“What does Captain Flint look like?”

The shorter of the two blurts it out - he can’t seem to help himself, and Gates gives him a hard look.

“He’s an ogre,” he answers. “Hair red as the devil himself, and a temper to boot, and that’s a good day. Now get the hell out of here - I don’t expect to see you in Nassau looking to join up in a week’s time.”

The two young men gulp, and the taller one shoots him a grateful look. Gates nods almost imperceptibly, and then they turn - and Gates is left holding a letter marked James Flint and staring into the darkness, wondering whether he hasn’t done enough good deeds to earn himself some redemption.

“Definitely should have stayed home,” he mutters, and heads off to bed. In the morning, he’ll worry about how he’s going to get out of Port Royal himself.

_Two Days Later:_

He’s home, finally, and it stinks like it always has. Hal has never been so grateful for the stench. He’s not quite certain when that smell came to mean home - possibly around the time that he’d taken Billy under his wing, but however it’s happened, he’s come to associate the scent of shit and fish and salt water and sand with the island he now stands on. His feet are planted firmly on the shore at last - a little more firmly than they might have been two weeks ago when his boots had not seen so much walking, in fact, and if he has his way he will not leave again for some time. He can feel the sun on his skin once again, and he finds himself aching for a pint. He’s not had a decent drink in what feels like ages - the piss they sold in Port Royal had had only one redeeming feature, and while he does not hold Nassau’s grog to be superior to all others, he’s certainly been craving a mug of it since he washed up ashore what seems like ages ago now. He turns, intending to head inland, toward the tavern -

“Mr. Gates?”

The voice that comes from his left is familiar and welcome, and Gates turns back.

“Dooley?”

“Fuck me,” Dooley says, a look of shock on his face. “You’re alive! We thought -”

He is hot, and tired, and in need of a week in bed, but somehow Gates finds the energy to smile.

“You’re not going to be rid of me that easily,” he says. “You think a capsized launch’d do me in?”

“Nah,” Dooley answers, smile widening. “We all figured it was the Captain that -”

He stops abruptly.

“Shit,” he mutters, and Gates does not like the way he says it at all. Not one bit, and he takes a step toward the younger man. “Shit,” Dooley repeats, and Gates begins to feel a proper sense of foreboding now.

“Thought the Captain’d what?” he demands, and Dooley looks at him, eyes wide.

“We thought you died,” he says. “We thought - _they_ thought Flint killed ya, and Dufresne - he shot - Christ, Flint was tellin’ the truth!” He sounds horrified. Gates can feel himself begin to breathe faster. He can feel the panic start to race down his spine, can feel the moment that if he’d had any hair left, more of it would’ve gone grey.

“ _Dufresne_ \- _shot_ Flint?!” he starts, and Dooley seems to see the line of his thinking, because he reaches out a hand to put it against Gates’ shoulder as if to hold him back.

“He’s alive,” he hastens to say. “He’s alive, just -”

“Which one?” Gates demands. “Which one of them lived?!” So help him, if Flint has killed Dufresne - if he’s done away with another of Gates’ boys -

“They’re both alive,” Dooley assures him, and Gates can feel his heart start again. “Flint’s injured, though - Howell patched him up, but I saw him favoring that shoulder earlier - ain’t been quite the same since, especially with the hand still fucked all to hell from Mr. Singleton - look! There goes Flint now!”

He turns, and sees a flash of red hair, and there, heading away from them across the sand is Flint, with -

“Is that Silver?” Hal asks, and Dooley nods.

“Aye,” he answers. “Mr. Silver’s been the Captain’s shadow since the mutiny, but I don’t know  what the fuck they’re up to now -”

“For Christ’s _sake_ ,” Gates swears, and then starts across the beach himself. “The fuck does he think he’s doing listening to the cook, I knew he was bloody stupid but I didn’t think he was fucking _suicidal-"_

He hears the shouting about Billy Bones - alive, returned as if from the dead, tortured and sun-baked but _alive_ a moment later, and breaks into a run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should probably also be noted that I headcanon Gates as actually being Avery, since it lines up so very neatly. That's reflected here. Chapter 2 to follow - comments are loved, appreciated, and motivational!
> 
> Also, Tarasque has another excellent fic featuring the idea that we never see more of Hennessey in the series because he's at Oglethorpe's plantation. Great minds think alike and all that - we've talked about it, and I'd highly recommend you go read their fic too!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, this chapter is happening at the point where the plan to rescue Abigail and bring her to her father is already underway, the firing on the fort has stopped, and Silver hasn't had a chance to lie about the gold being gone because, well, Hal's back and throwing a monkey wrench in more or less everything.

James cannot properly name the sensation that goes through him when he finds out that Billy has returned.

First and foremost is relief of a sort. Billy is alive. James can salve his own conscience, reduce his casualty count by one, assuage his guilt and stop hearing Gates’ voice in his head. Billy is alive, and safe, and whatever he has been through, they can start over, or so he hopes. If the crew has not already poisoned Billy against him again. If the younger man will believe him, if, if -

Relief, he finds, turns to ashes in his mouth when Billy turns to look him in the eye and he sees the clear conviction on the man’s face that James has taken to drowning his enemies at sea.

He is going to be trouble. There is no way around it, no talking himself out of it, no words that will convince Billy of the truth, but he can’t bring himself not to try - for Hal’s sake, for the memory of his friend, and so he walks toward Billy, and opens his arms, aware that he could in any moment find Billy’s hands around his neck, and hugs the boy he’s come to think of as a sort of nephew or younger cousin of a sort. Billy does not murder him - he’s covered in sand, still, somehow, and James can feel the heat coming off his sunburned skin still. More than anything, the younger man seems as though he is in shock, and what the fuck have they done to him that he should be so shaken, so off-balance as to wait until James has pulled away to choke out -

“Where’s Gates? What happened? Just - just tell me, please, you know, I know you do -”

“Billy-” James starts, and then, behind him, there are rushing footsteps on the sand, a gasp that goes through the crew -

“James Flint, what the fuck do you think you’re doing? I just put the bloody cook back where he fucking belongs and if you don’t think we need to have a serious conversation about your choice in partners in crime then -”

James whirls, and Billy stares, and behind him, Hal Gates falls silent, utterly dumbstruck for the first time in all the time James has known him.

“I told you I didn’t kill him,” James croaks, and he’s not certain whether he’s talking to Hal or Billy, but it doesn’t matter, as a moment later Billy has moved past him, and Hal has moved forward, and James finds himself rendered utterly irrelevant in the face of the father-son reunion occurring in front of him and the entire crew.

“I thought you drowned,” Hal croaks. “You went over the side and I thought -”

“Silver told me you were dead,” Billy says at the same time, and James can see the entire crew converging, ready to be part of the hug, to welcome Hal back as they have Billy and -

James simply doesn’t have the strength for the round of arguing that will follow as they decide whether they do or do not want to acknowledge that he’s owed compensation for attempting to give them the world and getting a shoulder injury and a concussion for his troubles. He hurts, and he’ll either come back to find them offering him part of the injury funds, or he’ll have their awkward silence for his answer, and either way, he needn’t be there for this, no matter how relieved he might be to see Hal and Billy both alive. It’s not as if they’ll believe him about that either.

He’s not truly a part of this crew and perhaps he never will be and today for some reason the knowledge hurts, his own fault though it may be. He leaves without a word, and misses the guilty look on Dufresne’s face, and the way that Hal and Billy sob over each other, and the moment Hal turns, eyes still wet, and scans the tent, gaze becoming more frantic until he asks -

“Where’s the captain? Did anybody see him leave? Anybody?”  

************************************************************

One day, Gates thinks, he’s going to learn not to be a hot-headed idiot, and on that day he’ll probably keel over stone dead. The fact that he’s still standing at all is certainly a fucking miracle- in Gates’ own day, a man who’d betrayed his captain this way would have been shot by now. Another debt to add to his tally - James has laid eyes on him, known him for a traitor, and not demanded his exile from the crew or anyone else’s after the fiasco at Division Bay.

Then again, he thinks - maybe the man’s just waiting.  _Or maybe,_ Hal's mind whispers,  _Billy hadn't been the only one deputized to bring in Captain Flint._  The thought speeds his steps, makes his search more urgent. 

He finds James two hours later, sitting at Eleanor Guthrie’s tavern at an upstairs table. He’s alive -  thank god for that, but he looks fucking awful, and once again Hal feels the sting of guilt. If he’d perhaps just had that drink - maybe they could have talked, maybe they could have stopped this whole fucking mess before it started. He wonders, too, just for a moment if he even has the right to approach James now, but damn it, someone has to. He’s seen corpses look less miserable, and less filthy too.

“I hope you won’t take this the wrong way,” he says, “but someone in this god-forsaken town should open a bath house so you could be its first customer.”

James looks up at him with a wary, nigh belligerent gaze, his green eyes focused on Gates, hunched, one hand holding a bottle and the other held against him. There is a bandage now wrapped around his still-healing palm.

“I’ve a bullet-hole in one shoulder that says you owe me an apology,” he says, the tone of his voice deceptively casual, and Hal winces.

“Would you take that apology in the form of a bottle? Found some Talbot Rhodes to replace what you lost,” he says, and hefts the bottle in his hands.

It hadn’t been cheap, this bottle, and Gates is currently as poor as a church mouse from his recent travails. There’s more money, of course, in the cellar of Flint’s own house, along with most of Gates’ other worldly possessions, but it’s likely some kind of bad form to approach the near-widow of the man he’s almost killed to ask her to fetch out ill-gotten gold to repay her lover for the wrong done him. It would require, too, an explanation to Flint’s Miranda of what’s occurred, and Gates intends to apologize, not commit suicide by angry Puritan woman. He’s seen her kitchen knives, and so he’s borrowed from an old acquaintance and swallowed his pride and come here to apologize to the one of them worst injured by this mess.

“I’m sorry about the shoulder,” he says after a moment of awkward silence. James grunts, and pulls the bottle toward himself.

“Another inch to the right, and I might not have kept the arm,” he says, pouring himself a glass of his consolation prize. “It hurts like blazes.”

Gates raises an eyebrow.

“You’ve had worse,” he says, and James fixes him with a look.

“You’ll forgive me if I complain louder about a wound dealt by my own crew than one garnered from some fat merchant with uncommonly good aim,” he says sardonically, and Hal winces again.

“S’pose that would add to the sting,” he admits, and James snorts mirthlessly.

“How’s Billy settling in?” he asks. “I didn’t have time to get the full tale from him.”

Gates sobers, if it is at all possible to become more so when he’s not touched a drop yet.

“He’s been tortured,” he answers, and James starts.

“Tortured?” he asks. “By whom and for what?”

“The Scarborough’s prick of a captain,” Gates answers. “God save us all from men named Francis. He’s been asking about you, in particular - no doubt boxes his jesuit* of a night fantasizing about hauling you back to England in chains. Apparently you made an impression.”

He scrubs a hand over his bald scalp - no mystery as to what’s caused _that_ , either, but on this occasion he can’t help but feel the gesture is justified, and he makes a frustrated noise.

“You were bloody right,” he says in a low voice. “The English are coming back to their island. This is just the start. Billy was allowed to escape.”

“They let him go - and promised him what?” James asks, and Gates snorts.

“Bloody suicide, if you ask me. They told him to bring you in, as if he’d get any further than laying a hand on you before you’d -”

“I didn’t try to kill him,” James interrupts, his voice rising. He stands halfway out of his chair, anger flashing across his face. “Christ, Hal - do we need to go over this again, with Billy no doubt standing outside waiting to hear if we’re going to shoot each other or apologize and walk away? Have you even decided which it’s to be yet?”

He’s breathing hard. Whatever else he might be, James is not alright - that much is clear. He’s also balancing himself on the table with one hand, the good one, and as Hal watches, James sinks slowly into the chair again, puts his elbows on his knees, and scrubs his hands over his face.

“If you still want to kill me you could do the decent thing and get it over with,” James says from behind his hands, and Hal feels his breath stutter and something in his stomach curdle. He closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath.

“I didn’t come here to hurt you,” he says slowly. He opens his eyes, and looks his friend in the face. “I’ve done that much already - I know that. And I know the apology hasn’t been much of one, but for what it’s worth I’m sorry. Crew’s sorry too, even though they’re all a bit soft in the head some days. There’ll be injury pay for the shoulder, and that fund you wanted out of the Spanish gold when we get it. It’s the best recompense I could think of.”

James does not raise his head. He does not look up, but from behind his hands, Hal hears -

“I’m sorry for what I said about Billy.”

Hal frowns.

“What the hell are you - oh. That. Aye - that was fucking rude. Glad you’ve come to realize it.”

James lifts his head.

“Hal, I all but accused you of getting Billy killed," he says hoarsely. "If you’re going to say something more about it, now’s the time. I’d prefer not to find myself facing a mutiny again because -”

“We both said things we shouldn’t have,” Hal answers firmly. “It’s done. Apologies made and accepted, right? Anyway, we’ve bigger fish to catch.”

He means every word. At the time he’d been incensed at his friend’s words, but now -

Well. Billy’s alive, and he’s had all the apology he has a right to expect, and they truly do have larger problems. James looks up, and Hal takes a deep breath.

“They offered to pardon Billy, and as many men as he could bring with him to take you in,” he blurts, and watches James’ face contort strangely.

“ _They_ being -?” he asks, and then blanches. He sways unsteadily, still staring at Hal.

“It’ll already have gone through Parliament,” he says. “They’re willing to pardon as many of us as it takes, save you, it seems.”

“Pardons?” James chokes out. Gates nods.

James shoves his chair away from the table. As Gates watches, he stumbles backwards, only just catching himself on the next table, and stares at Hal as if he were seeing a ghost. Gates does not think he is imagining the horror on James’ face. He meets Gates’ eyes, and just for a moment, he looks lost.

“ _Pardons_ ,” he snarls, fists clenching helplessly. “They just moved it through Parliament as if it were nothing - _less_ than nothing.” Gates moves toward him.

“Aye. Keep your voice down - the men down there hear that and we’re both done for, and this island with us.”

James turns away.

“They want to pardon us all.” His voice is shading into the hysterical now, and he seems to realize it. He gives a bitter, unsteady laugh, and leans on one of the chairs behind him - sinks into it as if his knees can no longer hold him, sitting sideways, and then lowers his head into his hands again, fingers steepled over the bridge of his nose. “This is the solution they’ve come to in all their fucking wisdom - an attempt to retake the island with no bloodshed and no negotiation.”

“And no chance of self governance from the moment the first desperate thief with a wife back home signs his name to the first promise to do no more evil against Mother England,” Gates says, and James slumps further if possible.

“The moment the men get wind of this, we’re finished.” His voice is muffled, and the look in his eyes -

“Captain. _James_ ,” Gates says, and he can’t help it - he moves forward and reaches out a hand, trying to give his friend something solid to hold onto. If he pays for it later, so be it - he’ll not allow a minor disagreement to keep him from doing something to change that look in the younger man’s eyes. “It’s not the end of everything,” he says. “I'm not going to stand by while they cart you off to London, for one. There are still men here who will fight with everything they have for what this place stands for - Vane for a start. Call off this bloody stupid posturing and go and make friends while-”

“Pardons,” James repeats again. “Fucking _pardons_.” He spits the words as if they were poison. “Ten years, and now they wish to -” He stops, cuts himself off.

“Ten years?” Gates asks. “You’ve been here ten years. What the hell happened ten years ago that has to do with this?”

Silence hangs between them for a moment, and then -

“This tells me where Billy has been for the past two weeks, not where you’ve been.” 

James does not answer him, the words he speaks instead all but ground out. He hunches forward, elbows rested on his knees, still-loose hair swinging about his face, and it’s difficult to see his expression, but Hal thinks he can guess.

“What happened, that night? You left the _Walrus_ \- where did you come ashore?”

“James -” Gates starts, and then sighs. He sits down unbidden.

“We’re really not going to discuss this?” he asks, and James closes his eyes.

“We are going to,” he answers. “I just - need some time to accommodate the notion. Please.” He sounds tired - as worn and exhausted as he looks, and Hal can’t help but relent.

“Alright,” he answers. “But when I finish we are going to talk, before this thing goes any further. We need help, whether you like it or not.”

“When you’ve finished,” James promises. He catches the look on Gates’ face, and sighs.

“If all goes to plan, the situation is in hand,” he assures. “I’ll have to inform the crew soon and I’ll need your help or Silver’s to do it, so I suggest you work out between yourselves who’s the best candidate for the job - if you’re still planning on getting your share of the gold, that is.”

It’s a challenge - and a plea of sorts, and god help him, Hal can’t turn it down.

“I am,” he answers, silently cursing himself. The things he’s willing to do for this man - as if, in some way, he were a wayward nephew. “And I’ll not have Silver taking my place while I’m still alive and stomping around. How the hell did you end up relying on _that_ slippery fucking weasel? I turn my back for two days and -”

“Your tale first.”

Gates sighs.

“Alright,” he agrees, and starts. “I washed up on the coast of Florida about five hours after I left you, and it must have taken me half an hour after that to wake up….”

************************************************************

“...and that,” Gates says, “is how I came to be here, looking you in the face and telling you we’re all about to be fucked if we don’t do something, and fast.”

They’re sitting down now. Sometime in the last half hour, it’s happened - James isn’t certain when, but it’s yet another way this night has not gone even remotely the way he’d planned it when he began firing on the fort this morning. Now, though, Gates is sitting across from him, telling him that he’s had it from Billy that they’re all about to be either pardoned or hanged - and he says this, James thinks, as if he has not just torn James’ world to shreds in the space of the last hour and brought screaming to the fore the ghosts of ten years ago.

Pardons. Fucking _pardons_ , now, after all that has happened. The words keep swirling in his head, going round and round, and with every pass James can hear Alfred’s voice. He can feel the heat of the dining room that night in Thomas’ house, he can hear the sound of his life coming to a screeching halt one December night - _all_ their lives -

He is shaking, and he cannot control it, so he puts his hands together on the table and closes his eyes and tries to breathe.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Gates says softly, warily, and it’s all James can do not to put his head in his hands again.

“I have,” he answers, and then feels a stab of loathing at the sound of his own voice. He can’t see Hal’s concerned look, but he can feel it scorching him. He can’t continue with this - he has to pull himself together but he’s not sure where to begin. Not while he’s sitting across from the latest in a long line of men who have tried to tear what is his from him and the only one who has ever apologized, and he hates himself for this moment of weakness. He can take a bullet to the shoulder and douse it in salt without flinching, but this -

He is staring in the face the very thing he had discussed with his crew, and Hornigold, and Vane and Miranda not an hour since, and now he truly must find the girl, Abigail, or lose his head and any chance they have of keeping this island for themselves.

“James. Mr. Gates.”

The sound of Miranda’s voice has never, ever been more welcome in all his life. He looks past Gates to her, and Christ, he thinks, when is the last time he bought her anything nice instead of stealing it? When this is over - when it’s done - he’s going to see her smile again if it kills him. Maybe he’ll see if he can find her an ornament for her hair like the kind she used to wear so regularly -

He’s woolgathering, he realizes, and rises from the table to greet the woman he still can’t believe has elected to stay with him instead of running for Boston the way she probably should have done years ago.

“Something wrong?” he asks, and Gates turns, registering her presence as well.

“If you’re going to come and greet Abigail when she arrives, now might be an opportune moment to stop drinking,” Miranda says, and something about the look on James’ face must alert her. She steps forward, concern on her face, and Gates frowns.

“Abigail?” he asks, and James starts to move toward Miranda.

“I need to speak with the crew,” he says, and he does not miss the way that Miranda’s hand moves toward him. She allows the hand to rise, to touch his cheek, and then with her other hand she pulls him toward her by his belt. She murmurs into his ear -

“I will speak with Mr. Gates. Are you certain you’re prepared to face them?”

He looks at her for a moment, and then sighs.

“I don’t have a choice,” he says. Her hand feels warm against his face - and soft, and for a moment he wants to linger.

“Nassau will not fall if you wait,” she tells him, and he closes his eyes.

“It might,” he answers. He opens them again, and meets her concerned expression with his exhausted one. “Talk to Hal,” he says. “Convince him you’re not a witch, and I’ll attempt to convince the men out there first that we have half a chance of taking that gold before the English arrive with pardons and second that that isn’t the better option.” He squeezes her hand where it rests at his waist, and then begins to move past her.

“Pardons?” she starts, confused and concerned. “Abigail isn’t here yet, let alone letters of pardon -” And then Gates’ voice sounds overtop of hers.

“Hold up a second.”

Gates stands.

“If you’re going to go and speak with the crew, you might wish to do so with all the facts in front of you. Think this came from one of your agents - didn’t know you had any north of St. Augustine.”

He reaches into his pocket, and pulls forth a letter. James frowns.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he asks. “I haven’t got any agents in Florida, and I don’t know anyone who would willingly send me a letter.” He reaches out and takes it.

He looks down. He does not know who might have -

The letter is addressed to James Flint, and for a moment, James just stares.

“James, what is it?” Miranda asks, and James can’t breathe, can’t speak -

He’s drunk. He must be, and for a moment his hand shakes and his vision blurs from tears. That must be the reason for what he sees - it has to be, does it not?

With every last ounce of self preservation and control he possesses, he turns to Miranda.

“Take that and read it to me?” he requests, and if his voice is not quite steady, if he is trembling then the two people looking at him have the good grace not to mention it. He holds out the letter-

And hears Miranda’s breath catch as well, and oh thank god, he has not lost his mind.

“James -” she starts, urgent, simultaneously terrified and hopeful.

“You see it, then?” he asks.

“I’ve its twin in my satchel,” she answers, and James feels a shiver run down his spine. She sees it - agrees with him, and now comes the question - the only question, for he knows where Hal has been, but not how he acquired the precious piece of paper in James’ hand.

“When was this written?” James asks. He barely recognizes his own voice - he almost does not wish to know the answer and yet -

He turns to Gates, who is frowning.

“Can’t give you the exact date,” he answers. “I got it off a man who’d been paid to carry it.”

“When?” Miranda asks, and Gates turns his attention to her, still confused.

“A week since? Mebbe two?”

It is not certain yet. There is no guarantee - but it has to be, the paper does not look weathered enough to have survived ten years, it _must be._

“Would one of you care to explain why you’re staring at me like I’m some kind of messenger come from God Almighty to deliver the good news?” Gates asks.

“Open it,” Miranda urges, and James swallows hard. He can do this - he is going to do this, but first -

Thomas had - no, _has_ \- always, always had ridiculous handwriting. James retracts the letter, and strokes a trembling thumb over the words on the page. A week, perhaps two, since - since -

Quite suddenly James can no longer wait. He cannot linger any longer - he tears open the letter frantically, reads it, reads it again -

The world spins around him, and rights itself, and something in James’ chest contracts. His heart, perhaps - or maybe whatever bonds have stood around it for the last ten years, strained to the breaking point. James can barely breathe. There are tears welling in his eyes - and he cannot cry, not here, he doesn’t dare -

He turns to Miranda, meets her gaze, and nods, unable to say a word.

“Where?” Miranda demands, her voice suddenly as raw as his own, and James hands her the letter.

Thomas lives. Thomas breathes, and James cannot seem to stop trembling, and so he sinks into a chair, hands gripping his knees,

“Florida,” he chokes. “He’s in Florida.”

He does not rise, and Miranda does not explain anything to Gates for the moment - she merely sinks to her knees, and throws her arms around him, and there they remain, laughing and crying in equal measure, until Gates pipes up.

“Who’s in Florida?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *boxing the jesuit is a colorful 18th century euphemism for masturbation. No, I truly do not know why.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This - is finally here. I'm not even going to begin to go into what my last three months have looked like - suffice to say that writing time has not featured prominently. I'm not going to apologize for the delay - there was really nothing else I could have done, but I will say a big thank you to my cheerleading squad and editor and assistant fluff writer, Sirenswhisper. Thanks, hon - I couldn't have done it without you!

“What the fuck do you mean they’ve taken the ships and left the harbor?!”

Eleanor’s wrath, Max thinks, is a sight to behold. It is a shame that in this case, it is doomed to be thwarted.

“Captain Vane and his crew were persuaded to leave with Captain Flint,” she says. “They sail for the gold. A deal was struck.”

“A deal. They struck a deal with the daughter of the fucking governor of Carolina still on our _fucking_ shores, with no warning and the situation still as volatile as it is?!”

Max steps forward. She does not think on it too much - she takes Eleanor’s hands, holds them firmly in her own.

“They have left us the daughter to the governor of Carolina,” she says. “They will bring the gold back here, and when they do - when they have it - do you believe that Governor Ashe will allow the Spanish to encroach upon our shores with her here?”

“In a heartbeat,” Eleanor answers bleakly. “And when he gets wind of this, he’ll make sure no one so much as whispers the name of this island without shuddering in horror. They’ll -”

Footsteps sound in the hall. Eleanor turns - and then gasps, and backs toward Max and away from the open door.

“For once, we are in agreement.”

“Captain Hornigold.”

Max does not move - she dares not, not with Hornigold pointing his pistol at Eleanor and holding onto Abigail Ashe with the other hand, her mouth stopped with a cloth gag and fingers scrabbling uselessly at his hand.

“I have no intention of being here when the island burns,” he says. “Move, both of you. If you are very lucky, and Governor Ashe is feeling very charitable, I may even save you both from the noose.”

Benjamin Hornigold has not changed one jot since the last time Max saw him at the brothel. She tells him so in graphic, scalding detail all the way to the ship, until the hatch closes above them, and Eleanor begins to swear and throw things and weep.

******************************************************

Above all else, Eirnin longs for the sound of the sea once more - just once.

The gentle rolling of the waves comes to him sometimes in dreams, even now. It has been many years, but he still recalls. The ship rolls, the hammock swings beneath his weight -

The gates explode, and Hennessey wakes with a start.  The goddamn crickets are singing again, and there is a smell of smoke, and -

And no ship but a dark barracks surrounded by a hundred other men and oh but he still aches from the beating three days ago.

“What the hell -?” Thomas sounds tired, Hennessey notes - and irritated. Small wonder - they are both exhausted, and Thomas more so for that he has been attempting to do Hennessey’s work whenever possible lately. He gets up out of his cot but sleepily, slowly, and Hennessey fights his way clear of the rough blanket covering him. He moves to the narrow window - the one streaming light from the explosion that’s just occurred, and good gods, but does he hear shouting?

“What’s happening?” Thomas asks. Men are waking around them now - fighting their way up out of deep sleep in most cases, eyes bleary, grumbling voices raised.

“What the fuck was that?” someone demands, and Thomas turns back.

“I’m not sure,” he starts. “Quiet down, the guards will come looking -”

“Let them look.”

Hennessey has stepped away from the window now. He stands in the darkened laborers’ quarters, the light from outside on Thomas’ blond hair the only illumination, and in the relative quiet of the barracks, his voice sounds loud even to himself. No matter - let it. Just this once - tonight, after so long, let it ring out as it used. He turns to Thomas, and the entire barracks, and there is a grin on his face - one that neither Thomas or any other man in this accursed place has seen before, one that Hennessey himself has nearly forgotten he is capable of, filled with vengeful satisfaction.

“What’s happening?” Thomas asks, low and urgent, and Hennessey takes a step toward him.  

“That,” he says, voice low and fierce and joyous, “was cannon fire.”  As he speaks, the guns sound again, and the concussive force shakes the ground. Hennessey turns back to the window. It is - it must be -

He takes a shaking breath. He is about to be free - they are both about to be free, and quite suddenly, he is as tired as if he had been awake for two days, and as giddy as a small boy at the same time. He looks to Thomas, and smiles, awed and on the edge of laughter of one kind or another. Relief - that’s the word. Bone-shattering relief.

“You’ve done it,” He says to Thomas, and then steps away from the window, and in one motion, envelopes the younger man in a hug. He pulls back after a moment - after he’s stopped shaking, after he stops feeling as though he might weep, and steps to one side. He addresses the entire barracks, raising his voice enough to be heard deliberately this time.

“The men coming through those doors -” he points, “will not take kindly to violence. If you’ve any desire to survive the night, you will offer them none. Am I understood?” He stops, catches his breath. The beating has not done him any favors, after all - he will ache for all this movement later, but for right now, he has things to do.

“What the hell are they here for?”

Thomas steps forward. This could still turn ugly - he knows it all too well, as well as Hennessey, has seen it all too often these last ten years. There is worry in his eyes, and when he looks to Hennessey, they come to an agreement within seconds. These men must be calmed - and it must happen quickly. They trust Thomas - believe him when he speaks.

“They’re not here to harm you,” Thomas answers. He turns to the men. “At worst, they may want recruits. If you’ve any hesitation about leaving -”

There is a sound of laughter - bitter, true, but still laughter.

“No one’s stayin’ here,” someone says by Hennessey’s elbow. “Am I right, lads?”

There’s a chorus of ayes, and Thomas nods.

“Fair enough,” Thomas answers, and then it seems to hit him - he is about to be free. He turns back to the window, eyes fixed on the fire, and then flinches as something shakes the building. More cannon-fire, Hennessey recognizes - ten pounders, no less, and where in the hell have they gotten those from?

“We’re truly leaving,” Thomas murmurs. “We _are_ leaving, aren’t we? You don’t think -”

Hennessey reaches out and places a hand on Thomas’ arm.

“We are leaving,” he reassures. “If I am certain of one thing, that is it. It looks as though your guess was right,” he says, and Thomas cannot help it - he begins to smile as well, and then there is the sound of tramping feet outside, and someone at the window gasps.  

“What is it?” Hennessey asks. The man gestures, and Hennessey shoves his way through the crowd.

“Fucking hell,” the watcher at the window breathes. “Admiral, come quickly, is that -?”

Hennessey glances out the window. It takes him a moment to see what the man is pointing to - it looks to be a fluttering flag with a device on it of some kind, but he can’t see. He squints, trying to make out the design in the dark, but the flag is blowing in the wind, now. He turns to the man beside him.

“What -?”

He turns back, and catches sight of the flag again. It is red - he can see that much, but what -?

He freezes. It cannot be - it isn’t - the device on the flag can’t be -

And then the banging and shouting reaches their door, and they are out of time for questions.

**************************************************************************************

“Think they need help in there?”

The question comes from Billy Bones, and Vane looks to him with a sort of heavy-lidded incredulousness.

“You got a death wish?” he asks, taking another puff from his cheroot. Billy’s face flushes.

“No, but -” he starts, and Vane shakes his head.

“If you’re worried about Flint, then you’re stupider than I took you for,” he answers. “And if you’re worried about Avery -”

“It's Gates.”

Vane gives him a singularly unimpressed look.

“That look like the Mr. Gates you knew?” he asks, and Billy turns.

The plantation walls are a smoking wreck. There are bodies strewn on the ground before them, dead in the wake of blows from the gun that he and Vane now stand next to, and just inside the entrance -

Well. Vane’s not the only one who believes in demonstrative justice, and Flint may have been the one to suggest it, but neither he or Mrs. Barlow had attempted to stop Gates when he’d taken the knife from Flint’s hand, either. Nor did Charles, or anyone else, and when it was done, and Oglethorpe’s throat was slit, it’d been Gates who’d handed Charles the head.

“You know what to do with it,” he’d said, hard-eyed, and now Billy stands, surveying the results.

“I ever tell you,” he says slowly, “about what I did to the man that pressed me into service?”

“I heard about it,” Vane says shortly. He takes another puff, and sits back against the cannon.

“Mr. Gates put me up to it.”

The words come out, stark and unforgiving and said matter-of-factly. Vane raises both eyebrows.

“He told you to do it,” he repeats. Billy nods - and Vane’s eyes widen.

“Fuck,” he answers. Billy nods.

“I’ve known who he is from day one,” Billy says. “The name, his history - all of it.”

Vane gives him a skeptical look.

“You knew he was Henry fucking Avery, and didn’t tell anyone?’ he asks, and then raises his eyebrows when Billy does not back down. He looks through the gates again, seemingly seeking the figure of either Gates or Flint somewhere in the smoke. He takes another puff of his cigar, starts to throw it to the ground, and then seems to think better of it so close to the cannon. He gives a reluctantly amused huff. If that’s true, then the kid’s got balls Vane hadn’t suspected. True either way, he reflects - most men don’t lie to him so easily. He doesn’t think it is a lie, though - not this time.

So. Henry Avery’s in there with Flint, and he’s pissed at the whole damn world.

“Think it’s worth asking for the warship when this is through?” Charles asks, and Billy gives him a Look.

“I think that if I were Thomas Hamilton or this bloke Hennessey that Gates is so keen on finding, I’d want to take that warship and blow England to kingdom come. If they’re willing to give me a shot at Hume, I just might be willing to join them in that. Seems like the sort of fight you might be interested in - am I wrong?”

Charles sits for a moment, and stares into the plantation. He looks at the remains of the walls - and the sign under Oglethorpe’s head, the one that simply bears the device of Henry Avery’s flag, left to speak for itself.  He shakes his head.

“No,” he answers. “You’re not wrong. Come on - let’s go find out if they need a hand in there.”

***********************************************************************

Miranda is going to see him with a beard.

It’s the first thought that crosses Thomas’ mind when he catches sight of his wife outside the door to his prison. His lovely Miranda is going to see him rough and unshaven, and perhaps he can somehow hide, just long enough to find a razor and a decent shirt - but then she and James will think that he does not want them back, and nothing - nothing - could be further from the truth. And besides - if that ginger pirate he’s caught sight of is indeed his James - if he is not dreaming- then he is not the only one who needs cleaning up.

“Sir - do you see out there -?” he starts to ask, and then turns to Hennessey. “Admiral - are you well?”

It has been many years since either he or Hennessey have possessed the pallor expected of gentlemen. Their skin is tanned and, in Hennessey’s case, freckled in what most in society circles would consider a shameful manner. They are not gentlemen, and yet at the moment, Hennessey might almost pass for one again, for his face has gone utterly white. He is staring out the window, a look of shock and almost pain on his face, and for one awful moment, Thomas believes he has gained James and Miranda back only to lose his stalwart companion of the last decade.

“Sir?”

He does not dare reach out. It is an unfortunate side-effect of their captivity - Hennessey is no longer apt to tolerate sudden touch without unthinking response. Thomas has no wish to provoke that response, not right now, not ever, and yet -

“Sir,” he pleads. “Eirnin!”

The name gets the older man’s attention. He turns back to Thomas, and it is difficult to see the look in his eyes in the dark, but he thinks he might just see a flash of something akin to terror there.

“Sir?”

“They must see me first,” Hennessey says, still white as a sheet.

“Who must?”

“Look out the window!”

Thomas turns.

“It’s rather hard to see in the dark -” he starts, and Hennessey groans.

“And once you wished to become governor of New Providence,” he mutters. “The flag, boy! God help us if there are any of the old guard left - but he’ll not harm you if he sees me first. Thomas, for the love of Christ, get away from the window -”

“Sir, what the hell are you playing at -?” he starts to ask, and then Hennessey is shoving to the front of the crowd of prisoners.

“No one else is to step near this door, do you understand?” he asks frantically. “When it opens -”

“Stand back!”

The instruction comes from outside. It’s delivered in a no-nonsense tone, and Thomas can feel goosebumps rise from head to toe, because he has hoped to hear that voice for ten long, painful years.

He does not think - instead, he pushes past Hennessey, past the crowd, and manages to touch the door.

“James?” he asks, and he hears the sound of a sharp intake of breath behind him- and from the other side of the door in front of him. “Miranda?”

He cannot hear skirts rustle, but he can imagine them all too well. He can hear his wife’s tread- distinctive, even after all this time, and he wonders silently how he has managed to retain this small fact about her as a memory.

“Thomas,” she says, tone certain and firm, and he cannot help it - he releases a small, nigh hysterical huff of laughter, and does the very thing James had warned against, and rests his forehead against the door.

“I’m here,” he confirms. “It’s -” He chokes, just a little. Now that they are here - now that he’s heard them - it’s so very hard to keep the tears at bay. “It’s good to hear your voice,” he manages to say at last, and he can hear the shuddering breath that Miranda takes in response.

“I’ve missed hearing you too,” she answers, and he wonders if she can possibly understand- if anyone can possibly understand - what it means to him to hear that he has been missed.  

“Thomas.” This time his name comes from James, and Thomas can just about imagine his lover resting one hand against the door. “Say something, please, anything.”

It’s strange, Thomas thinks, that the very moment that James needs to hear him the most is the one that Thomas finds himself fighting to speak. It has been so long - so very long -

“Thomas?”

He doesn’t care if James sees him unshaven and he doesn’t care if Miranda sees him wearing the only shirt he’s been issued in the last two years. He doesn’t care anymore - he can’t bring himself to care, because they are so close, and all he wants in the world is to hold them and to be held himself. He wants this door open - if he can articulate nothing else right now for the lump in his throat, he can tell them that. He can tell James how very much he wants to see his face again.

“Tell me - tell me you have the key to this door,” he all but begs. “James - please get this goddamn door out of my way so I can touch you.”

He hears the shuffle of feet, and then the jangle of keys.

“We have it,” James’ voice says, relief coloring his tone.

“There’s no way of knowing that -” another man’s voice says, lower, warning. “The bastard jailer died before I could ask him -”

“I’m coming in there if I have to get a battering ram to do it,” James cuts the other man off. “Thomas - stand back. It’ll only take a moment -”

“The key is in the very center of the ring.”

Hennessey has managed to shove his way forward as well, and at the sound of his voice, all noise from James’ side of the door ceases momentarily.

“Hal,” Hennessey says quietly, and Thomas hears the intake of breath, presumably from the other man standing with James. “If you’ve ever loved me,” Hennessey continues, “then get myself and Thomas out of this wretched place, please.”

“Eirnin.” The other man’s voice - Hal, Thomas supposes - sounds now every bit as relieved as James’. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

Hennessey does not answer. The key is inserted into the lock. It turns.

Later, Thomas thinks, he will care about the other prisoners who rush out of the barracks alongside him to stand under the open sky as free men again. Later - once he himself has stopped clutching at James’ shirt and sobbing into his shoulder. Once James’ arms, the same arms that have grabbed hold of him to pull him forward to freedom, have stopped shaking with relief, and clutching at Thomas as if he might disappear at any moment. It may take some time - their Miranda’s grip has become strong, and he could linger forever here, feeling her arms wrapped tightly around him from behind and James’ hand stroking his hair, his lips pressed against Thomas’ forehead.

“I’ve got you,” James murmurs. “It’s over. We’ve got you.”

He is home. He is safe. He lets James whisper it over and over again, and sobs all the harder.

*****************************************************************

The cot that Eirnin has claimed as his own is hard and rough. He sinks onto it, and wonders if there is any point in going outside just now.

The night air is blowing through the window. Outside, he can hear crickets begin to chirp again - they have not been unduly disturbed by the ruckus, damn them anyway. Thomas is outside, no doubt being swept into a loving embrace. James is with him. And Hal -

Hennessey’s hands are shaking. He leans over them, and tries to fight off the urge to climb onto the cot entirely and hug his knees against himself. It’s undignified, among other things - but then so too is the sudden need to weep that has come over him.

He attempts to take a deep breath. It is over - whatever else may also be certain, that much is undeniable. He has done his duty, what little of it remained. Thomas is safe. He is restored to James.

He is going to shake to bits. There is no use denying it - the tremor in his hands is worsening, and if Thomas were to come in here right now - if James were to see him this way -

Eirnin leans forward, bites the back of one hand against the sob in his throat, and closes his eyes tightly. They are not coming in, and he is not going out, not for money or blandishments, and oh _God_ but can they not take their joyful reunion and go? He does not begrudge them it, far from it, and yet -

Footsteps shuffle over the threshold of the room that has been, up until this night, Hennessey’s prison. A figure stands in the doorway.

“Eirnin?”

He has been a prisoner for ten years. He recalls well enough the day they had taken him - removed from a carriage, bashed over the head, and taken to a ship. He remembers that day - and the ones that followed. He has been pissed upon, beaten, humiliated -

None of it has frightened him as much as this moment, here, now. He does not look up - he cannot bear to do so, because if he does not see love in Hal’s eyes - if there is truly nothing left for him -

Hal’s weight settles beside him on the cot, and Hennessey cannot help it - he looks up, vaguely alarmed. He is very certain the flimsy cloth is not meant to hold this kind of weight - there have been nights where he has wondered if he himself will waken on the floor, and there is not all that much left to him -

Hal reaches over and in one moment, he gathers Eirnin close to him, and all thought ceases.

“Christ I’ve missed you,” Hal whispers. His voice is rough - his odd-looking mutton-chops rub against the bristles of Eirnin’s beard, and Hennessey is almost surprised to find that he’s not the one crying. The tears running down his cheek do not belong to him - instead, Hal is weeping, holding to Eirnin like a drowning man, like one who has already seen his doom.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs. “Eirnin, I’m so fucking sorry -”

“ _You’re_ sorry?”

Eirnin cannot help it - the words escape him in a bare croak, startled out of him by the absurdity of the situation. He is the one who has irreparably damaged his relationship with his only son. He is the one who, had he had any sense years ago, might have averted all of this, might have kept the name of Henry Avery from ever being spoken with anything but respect, and _Hal_ is apologizing and crying over _him_ -

“I fucked up,” Hal says miserably. “I should’ve come home, I should’ve just come right the fuck back to England and given myself up - if I had you’d’ve never ended up in this fucking place -”

“No, instead I would have been hanged when I released you from Newgate,” Hennessey says, and Hal pulls back a fraction, looking at him.

“Well you don’t think I’d truly have allowed them to hang you, do you? For a mutiny caused by her Majesty’s damnable Navy to begin with?” Hennessey asks, and Hal stares at him.

“I - no,” he says slowly. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. And it wasn’t caused by the Navy, not all of it - you remember that damned prat Admiral O’Byrne?”

It has been a long time - so many years, but Hennessey cannot fail to remember the man who had helped him rise up the ranks and simultaneously made it so very hard to be taken seriously thereafter.

“I recall,” he answers, eyes narrowing.

“I found out later the man had gambling debts,” Hal says grimly. “Bastard deliberately ‘forgot’ to bring the pay sheets for _Fancy_. Wasn’t a bloody thing you could have done, short of hauling the fucker up in front of the admiralty board and likely getting court martialed, even if you’d known.”

Eirnin starts. Hal knows - but how -?

Hal gives him a little half-smile, half-grimace.

“Think I haven’t thought over what you’d be doing to yourself over that, all these years?” he asks. He rises to his feet, and as he does so, he turns, and takes Eirnin’s hands in his own.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “For all of it. I should have come back -”

“You have.”

Hal looks at him, and Eirnin meets his gaze head on.  

“It should have been sooner -” Gates starts, and Hennessey shakes his head, cutting him off. He squeezes Hal’s hands.

“You came back for me,” he emphasizes. “You are here, now. It does not matter what has gone before - it _cannot_ matter, not  - not now.” He can barely breathe - there is an odd pressure in his head, and tears at the corners of his eyes, and he falters, and stops. He cannot continue - cannot find the words he wishes to say.  “Hal,” he finally chokes, and he has never, ever been more grateful to feel Hal’s arms around him, or his lover’s lips on his temple.

“You’re coming home with me,” Hal murmurs in his ear, voice rough with tears. “You’re going to come the fuck home, tonight. Can you stand?”

Hennessey nods. He can - he can just about manage to stand, can drag his aching limbs from this bed -

Hal’s hand trails down Eirnin’s arm, stopping him before he can begin to get his feet under him. His lover’s arm wraps around Hennessey’s waist, firm but gentle, and he is not sure if he stands or if he is lifted, carefully, put on his feet. Hal’s hand remains on the small of his back for another moment, steadying him, and then they are walking - carefully, slowly, Hal leading the way, until the moment they stand at the threshold.

“Ready?” Hal asks, and Hennessey nods.

The open night sky is smudged with smoke, but it’s the most beautiful thing Eirnin’s ever seen. If he notices it while clinging to Hal with his knees threatening mutiny beneath him, it is hardly any wonder. He is free - and he will not fall to his knees here, not here, not on this dirt that he has bled across so often, but so help him, the moment he reaches the shore and smells the salt water, he is not certain he will be able to remain upright. He is not sure he will want to. He leans against Hal, and closes his eyes for a moment, and then opens them again.

“Alright?” Hal asks, and Eirnin nods.

“Better than,” he answers, and it’s odd how much stronger his voice sounds to his own ears suddenly. “Where is Thomas?”

He grips Hal’s hand still. He cannot let go yet - he cannot bring himself to, and Hal seems to understand. He laces his fingers with Hennessey’s, and he smiles.

“Dunno if you can see him past the two over there,” he answers, and gestures with the other hand. “At a guess though, I’d say he’s happy.”

He looks to where Hal is pointing. Sure enough - James and a woman Eirnin can only guess to be Miranda Hamilton are hugging Thomas so tightly it looks as though they are trying to absorb him into their bodies. Thomas clings no less fiercely, and unless Hennessey is much mistaken, he is both laughing and crying, stroking Miranda’s hair and kissing James by alternate turns. It is perhaps the happiest he's ever seen Thomas - or James, for that matter, even if it does remind him of two limpets clinging to a rock as the tide goes out.

Hal’s voice, though, seems to alert the three still clinging to one another that they are being watched. Miranda is the first to break from the group - she turns, and spots Hennessey, who does all he can do not to shrink back.

“Lady Hamilton - “ he starts.

She is on her way over to him. Thomas reaches out as if to pull her back, but James catches his hand and kisses his knuckles. There is a look in Miranda’s eyes that Hennessey cannot interpret, and perhaps it is the gunpowder lingering on her hands or the way her hair falls about her face, but he is none too sanguine as to whether he is about to meet his maker after all tonight.

Perhaps not. Hal steps between them without hesitation and frowns.

“Miranda,” he starts. “Look - I know you’ve your grievances, but -”

“Oh get out of my way,” she says exasperatedly. She shoulders her way past Hal and, without one moment’s hesitation, she opens her arms, and Hennessey finds himself enveloped in a hug for the second time this night.

“Thank you,” she says into his shoulder. Her grip is strong - stronger than Hennessey might have expected, and he has never been enamored of the scent of a woman’s perfume but it has been long and long since he has smelt flowers. He returns the embrace, pleasantly startled and uncertain all at the same time.  

“I failed,” he murmurs after a moment, and she pulls back.

“You kept him alive,” she counters. “For that, you are welcome in our home. Isn’t he, James?”

She lets go, and turns - and Hennessey finds himself facing James.

*******************************************************************************************************

It is bad enough what they have done to Thomas. He can see the marks the past ten years have left on him even now - to say nothing of the ones he is certain he will discover when they are alone together. For all of that, though - Thomas does not flinch away from an imagined blow. Thomas laughs, and kisses him freely, and Hennessey looks at James as if he might just possibly turn out to be a phantasm.

“I tried,” Hennessey croaks the moment that James looks his way. “James - son -”

His mentor, James thinks, looks as though he is afraid he will be struck. Nay - that is not strong enough. He looks as though he _has_ been struck, and repeatedly, and for that alone, James is going to burn this place - and England, too - to the ground.

“Sir?”

It can scarcely be helped if his voice sounds a bit odd. He means nothing by it - save the expression of his genuine horror at finding Hennessey truly here, truly among the prisoners they have come to save. Nevertheless, Hennessey flinches - James tries not to curse.

How long, he wonders - how the fuck long have they both been here, and what the fuck have they done to the man who helped raise him to make Hennessey fear even the sound of an incredulous voice, to say nothing of raised ones? How many years - how many blows -?

“James - please come back here,” Thomas’ voice says behind him. He has stopped sobbing now - he’s being held by Miranda, still, and there is a tone to his voice that James might almost call pleading. Or warning.

It’s not that he does not want to heed Thomas. He does. Right now, he wants his lover’s arms around him. He wants to bury his face in Thomas’ shoulder, to feel Miranda’s kisses on both their cheeks, to be held and comforted and to comfort in turn, but this - _this_ -

He stares, and does not turn, cannot turn away.

“What the _fuck_ have they done?” James grinds out. The words come out as quietly as he can manage, but the rage in them cannot be masked. He is going to have blood for this - he wants blood, and suffering, and _pain_ and if he finds that there is still anyone alive who can be blamed for this -

Thomas sighs. He disentangles himself from Miranda’s arms - kisses her forehead softly as he does so, and turns to James.  One hand remains clutched between Miranda’s hands even as he does so, and he allows it, showing no discomfort or fear of touch. It is the one thing that allows James to remain sane.

“James, look at me,” Thomas requests softly. “Please.”

He does not have to ask - not truly. James cannot bear to look away from him for long - cannot bear to stop touching him, and Gates seems to feel much the same about Hennessey. He catches a warning glance from his quartermaster - he does not dare approach his mentor just yet. James turns back to Thomas, latching onto Thomas’ blue-eyed gaze.

“I’ve been - very fortunate,” Thomas says, and James tries not to gape.

“Fortunate?” he asks. “How the hell have any of us been fortunate?”

“I’ve been protected,” Thomas says firmly, and he steps closer to James and places a hand on his arm. “Not safe, far from it, but not -” He takes a deep breath.

“James,” he says quietly. “If I never make another request of you ever again, then let me make this one, please. Give him another chance. He’s earnt it.”

James nods. He can do naught else - he’s been struck dumb, yet again, at the tone of Thomas’ voice, and the look in his father’s eyes, and the sheer, mind-numbing horror of the realization that whatever else he has done - whatever else he thought he had accomplished -

“You think I’m still angry?” he asks. “You think I’m still planning to vent my rage like some sort of - of hurricane?”

There is a look in Hennessey’s eyes - guilt, James realizes. And pain.

“You are not,” he says quietly, “the monster I denounced you for. I should not have implied as much, when we last spoke as friends.”

He is trying - trying so very hard - to look James in the eye. It is hard - James can see that much, and his mentor’s voice catches, his hands fisting in the folds of the poor breeches they have clad him in.

“I have regretted it, these many years,” he continues with difficulty, and raises his head properly, seeking James’ eyes. “James - if you will hear me - if you will listen - I apologize-”

James cannot bear it one moment longer.

“I’m sorry,” James croaks, cutting Hennessey off, and he does not think he imagines the nudge that Hal gives Hennessey, or the similar one from Thomas that James feels on his back, and somehow, finally, he and Hennessey all but trip toward one another, their embrace fully as fierce as any that have been exchanged this night.

“I’m sorry,” James gasps. “This should never have happened - I didn’t know you were missing -”

“I tried,” Hennessey answers, weeping now. “I tried to save Thomas - you must believe me, I was so _close_ -”

“Wait - Flint’s got family now?”

James does not raise his head at the sound of Billy’s voice. He does, however, feel Hennessey’s hand clutch more tightly at his back, and feels his father raise his chin.

“Yes,” the older man pronounces. “He damn well does.”

“Aye,” Gates agrees. “And Billy, so’ve you. Come here, lad, there’s things we’ll need to speak about. Charles -”

“Somebody want to grab one of these torches?” Vane asks, and James breaks from Hennessey’s embrace finally, keeping one hand on the older man’s shoulder.

“I’ll take one, if it’s all the same,” Thomas answers quietly, and Vane grins.

“Glad to hear it. Come on - there’s still half these fields need burning.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are immensely appreciated, loved, and cherished.

**Author's Note:**

> It should probably also be noted that I headcanon Gates as actually being Avery, since it lines up so very neatly. That's reflected here. Chapter 2 to follow - comments are loved, appreciated, and motivational!
> 
> Also, Tarasque has another excellent fic featuring the idea that we never see more of Hennessey in the series because he's at Oglethorpe's plantation. Great minds think alike and all that - we've talked about it, and I'd highly recommend you go read their fic too!


End file.
